THE “DIVINE” RESCUE

365 Days of Thanksliving – Day 177

Y’all have probably heard a time or two that I was a cook in the Navy, right? Now, just so we’re clear, I didn’t join the Swabbie Service to sling hash. I originally signed my life away to be a nuclear engineer (on the enlisted side of things, anyway).

But what my roly-poly, silver-tongued recruiter conveniently neglected to mention was that one actually needs a modicum of disciplinary study skills to survive the two-year pipeline. He also completely forgot to add that "Nuke School" is basically the military equivalent of MIT—you know, where all the Big Bang Theory nerds go, minus the laugh track. Nope, he skipped right over the fun little statistic that 95% of all incoming noobs wash out in epic, soul-crushing fashion. Instead, he just flashed a ridiculous enlistment bonus in front of my greedy little eyes, and I took the bait hook, line, and sinker.

Off to sunny Orlando I went for boot camp and Electronics Technician A-School—the sacred gateway to power school. Yeah... didn’t make it past the first semester. Physics? Not a problem. Mathematics? Barely broke a sweat. But anything involving actual electronics? I was a total, irredeemable dunce. And back in advanced algebra, I had no problem calculating the right answers, but because I routinely forgot to put a tiny, microscopic period at the end of each equation, the instructors slapped me with a big fat zero. "Attention to detail," they called it. Go figure—apparently, the Navy frowns upon handing the keys to a nuclear reactor to a guy who treats decimal points as optional suggestions. Hahaha!

So, after failing spectacularly, I was unceremoniously banished to the fleet. Shortly after I arrived, we set sail on the ship’s maiden voyage. I made some phenomenal friends in that first division, but I absolutely loathed the actual work. So, when my turn came up for 90 days of mandatory KP (Kitchen Patrol), I basically begged to stay and "strike MS" (Mess Specialist/Cook). I took the E-4 exam, passed with flying colors as the first to promote, and poof—instant cook.

Now, I didn’t spend my glorious culinary career actually chained to a stove. Let’s just say my pale complexion and my division officer’s desire to actually utilize the brain God gave me kept me out of the deep fryer. I spent way more time wielding administrative paperwork than spatulas and tongs. By my next enlistment, I cooked a little more, but I was still mostly an office jockey in an apron.

Okay, Swabbie, where are you going with this? Let’s fast-forward to the modern era. Today, I can hold my own in a kitchen. I don’t burn water, and I can whip up a fairly decent meal. But of all the culinary mountains I have yet to conquer, slow-smoking a piece of beef on the pellet grill remains my Everest.

I watch the YouTube tutorials. I read the forums. I swear I pay far more attention now than I ever did in Nuke school, but still—twice now, my slow-smoked chuck roast has turned out to be an absolute tragedy.

Last night, chuck roast was on the menu again. I completely mismanaged my time, and the beef came off the grill possessing the structural integrity of a radial tire. The further past dinnertime we got, the more intensely frustrated I became. Finally, I threw in the towel, pulled the stubbornly tough beef off the grates, let it rest, and we stubbornly dug in.

Bless her sweet, patient heart, my wife soldiered through that aggressively chewy meat. Not a single word of complaint escaped her lips; she just quietly reached for the BBQ sauce and started slathering. And then she added a bit more. And more still. Eventually, I took the hint and drowned my own plate in sauce just to get it down. But despite the condiment camouflage... it thoroughly sucked.

Then, just as our guardian angels must have begged the Lord to intervene on behalf of our jaw muscles, the dogs started going berserk at a loud knock on the back door. “Hold on!” we yelled, frantically wrestling the pups into their kennels. Dani and I opened the door, and behold: two literal angels standing on our porch, bearing a massive platter of BBQ and two bowls of homemade dessert.

These divine messengers were our neighbors, Jenn and Izzy Johnson, dispatched directly by the Lord of BBQ Himself: Jenn’s husband, Travis. And oh my goodness, y’all, the heavens opened up and the angels sang. On that platter, Travis had piled up succulent, melt-in-your-mouth brisket, bombastic ribs, and the most incredible homemade "hobo beans" that permanently put my mother’s 120-year-old family recipe to absolute shame. (Sorry, Gloria, your beans are great, but our ancestors have absolutely nothing on TJ’s hobo beans). He also threw in honey-glazed cornbread, potato salad, and a homemade peach cobbler à la mode that was straight-up to die for.

It was Travis to the rescue, saving us from a night of chewing on leather. I’ve told him before, and maybe y'all could help me encourage him—that man needs to buy himself a food truck immediately, because he has serious, God-given skills.

And what does this former Navy cook have? Well... I can preach! Hahaha!

Tonight, I am overwhelmingly thankful for our neighbors Travis, Jennifer, Izzy, and Ben. They have absolute hearts of gold and know exactly how to bless a family—especially when your tummy is crying out for something way beyond what this washed-up former MS has the skills to produce.

What are you thankful for today?